I've just seen a face
by thewetbandit
Summary: Beth is in for a whirlwind adventure when she catches Paul McCartney's eye in the mirror. But a little surprise is in store...


**I've just seen a face**

 **by thewetbandit**

I'm applying a smear of plum lipstick when I see a face in the mirror, and gasp. It's Paul McCartney!

'This is the girl's bathroom,' is all I can say, trying to sound firm, but my voice comes out thin and squeaky. Paul chuckles.

'I know,' he says, folding his arms and eyeing me. He looks bloody gorgeous, with his soft brown eyes and floppy hair. My stomach clenches.

'Can I buy you a drink?' he asks. I just nod, dumbstruck. He leads me out to the bar. The crowds have thinned considerably. It's late.

Before I can pinch myself, Paul has whisked me into a booth, and we sip rum and Coke.

'So tell me about yourself,' he says, licking a droplet from below his bottom lip. I try my hardest not to swoon.

'There's not much to tell,' I say, holding my cards close to my chest. 'My name is Beth, and I'm an apprentice hairdresser. I live with my parents and younger sister, Sophie.'

Paul nods as if this is the most fascinating backstory he's ever heard. He drapes an arm over my shoulder. I remind myself that he probably does this with every girl. But why am I finding it so hard to care?

'Can I kiss you, Beth?' he asks, shooting me a crooked smile.

'Er…,' is all I can manage. 'Maybe later.'

I must be mad. Refusing a kiss from a Beatle! I know I'll regret this later.

I don't have much time to dwell on my poor decision. John appears and sits across from us. He grins at me.

'Who's this bird then, Paulie?'

Bird. The cheek of him. I must glare at him, because he looks taken aback. Clearly he's not used to a frosty reception from a girl.

'Sorry, sorry,' he says, holding his hands up. Strangely, Paul tenses beside me.

'She's a lady, not a bird,' he says. The gent!

John just laughs but there's a hardness in his eyes.

'I'm bored,' he says, yawning, and leaves.

'Sorry about him,' says Paul. I shrug, secretly delighted that John's gone.

'I'm used to pigs like him,' I say.

Paul laughs.

'Let's get out of here,' he whispers.

My mother always warned Sophie and I about boys like Paul McCartney.

'They only want to get into your knickers,' she said. 'They'll use you, abuse you, and leave you high, dry, and pregnant.'

Sophie and I used to just laugh it off. I knew that Sophie had to be more careful than me. She was much taller and prettier, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes. The men constantly chased Sophie, but she'd recently moved into a tiny flat with her boyfriend, Ted. Ted was handsome and charming and we all liked him.

But that's Sophie. As for me, I'm currently under Paul McCartney, my legs wrapped around his waist, my hands buried deep in his hair. We're kissing hungrily, as if we might tip off the edge of the world if we stopped.

I might as well be honest. I've never had sex. I've kissed a few boys, but that's about it. And now, I have no doubt where things are headed, as Paul unzips his trousers and hikes up my dress.

'Are you ready?' he asks. I nod. He rummages in his bedside locker and I see the flash of a wrapper.

'Is that a condom?' I ask.

'Yes,' he replies, and he enters me slowly, then thrusts faster and faster until he finishes with a grunt. I didn't come but I've heard good women never do.

We sit upright and Paul lights a cigarette. I take a deep drag, feeling like a real woman.

'That was great,' says Paul. I only now see the mess of his apartment: records stacked in teetering piles; guitars propped against every wall; a stack of dirty dishes on the coffee table.

'Yeah,' I say, nestling my head into the hollow of his neck.

We must fall asleep because when I wake, the room is dark. I stumble to the door and turn on the light. Paul wakes with a start. He looks adorable, his hair sticking in every direction, his eyes bleary. He smiles at me.

'Hello, gorgeous,' he says, his voice thick with sleep.

I curl up next to him.

'Hello,' I say.

Two days later, I'm in the little bathroom cubicle at work, getting violently ill into the toilet. There's a knock at the door.

'You alright, Beth?' says a voice. It's Audrey, my boss. I've been in here for twenty minutes.

'Yeah,' I say, but my weak voice can't be fooling anyone, because Audrey sends me home.

'Don't worry, you'll still be paid,' she says, ushering me out the door.

At home, I slump on the bed. But the vomiting isn't over. I spend most of that day hunched over the toilet.

I manage to haul myself up and pull on my favourite black dress. Paul's playing a gig tonight, and we're going back to his afterwards.

The gig crackles with electricity. I get a bit drunk and Paul has to drag me to his.

'I love you,' I say, giggling. He smiles.

'I think you need to sleep,' he says. He lays me on the couch and drapes a blanket over me.

When I wake up, my head is pounding. I run to the toilet and puke, resolving never to drink again.

Paul makes me tea and then, realising I'm late for work, I bolt down the street and skid in the door. Audrey looks at me.

'You ok, love?' she asks. I look in the mirror. My face is ashen.

'Yeah, fine, Aud,' I say.

I've got three blue rinses that morning. Mrs Darcy talks endlessly about her collection of Pomeranians. Honestly, she hardly draws breath.

At lunch time, I go to Wetherby's cafe next door. I cradle a steaming cup of tea. Then a familiar face appears at the window. It's Paul. He sits across from me.

'How are you feeling, darling?' he asks, taking my hands in his.

'Not great,' I admit, sipping my tea, which is overwhelmingly sweet.

'Why don't we go away to Brighton this weekend?' he says. 'The sea air will do you the world of good. What do you think?'

I nod and beam at him.

'Yes, please!'

God, I look so fat in this bathing costume. It's bright yellow and makes me look even paler than I already am. I scrutinise my reflection in the mirror of our hotel room. Paul's reclining on the bed.

'You look great,' he says, but I know he's just being kind.

The sea foam is freezing as it pummels my body. Paul wraps his arms around me and we kiss until some children shout abuse at us.

Back at the hotel, we make love, and then dress up and head out for a fish supper. We sit on the sand, our fingers dripping with grease as we gaze out at the sea. The waves roll languidly up the shore.

'How are you feeling?' asks Paul. 'You're a bit pale.'

Fuck, again?

'I'm fine,' I say, but truthfully, I am feeling a little bit queasy.

We finish our meal and walk hand in hand back to the hotel. I still feel as if I'm floating through a dream world, and I smile at Paul.

Back at the hotel, to my embarrassment, I have to run to the bathroom to get sick just as Paul's running us a bath. Afterwards, he washes my hair and kisses the back of my neck.

'You don't think you could be pregnant?' he asks.

Shit. I struggle to remember when I last had a period.

'We might have a problem,' I say.

Two weeks later, I'm sitting in the doctor's office. She's a tall, bony woman who chainsmokes all through our consultation. She's also very kind, to my immense relief.

'Well, congratulations,' she says. 'You've got a little baby in there.' She points at my stomach and takes some notes.

'You're about eight weeks along,' she continues. I sit as waves of terror wash over me. Noting my expression, she looks sympathetic.

'Don't be upset, sweetheart,' she says. 'It'll be fine, believe me.'

But it won't. I cry all the way home. Sophie's eating a sandwich in the kitchen. She sometimes comes home for lunch, as our house is nearer to work than her flat. She sees my tear-stained face and wraps me in a hug.

'What's wrong, Bee?' she asks.

'I'm pregnant,' I say, hardly believing the words even as they leave my mouth.

'I didn't even know you were seeing someone,' says Sophie, stroking my hair. 'Who's the father?'

'Paul,' I say, deciding not to reveal the celebrity status of my...boyfriend? Is he my boyfriend? We haven't even discussed that yet.

'You have to tell him,' says Sophie, and I know she's right.

That night, I'm at Paul's place. He's cooking dinner. We sit down to steaming plates of spaghetti bolognese. I didn't realise how ravenous I was, and I wolf it down. Afterwards, we sip strong black coffee. Paul frowns.

'What's wrong, Bee?' he asks.

Here goes.

'I'm pregnant,' I say. Paul drops his cup and it shatters on the floor. We both jump up but Paul tells me to sit down and cleans the mess. Afterwards, he pulls me onto his lap.

'We'll be alright,' he says, and I so badly want to believe him.

Eight months later, I'm swollen with child. I come back to Paul's place, having moved in some month previously. I'm on a lunch break from work.

I push open the door and am surprised to see a red woman's coat hanging on the hook. I kick off my shoes and get up the stairs with some difficulty. The bedroom door is closed and I hear voices behind it. I open it.

It's Sophie and Paul. They look up in unison. Oh, thank god. I'd thought Paul was being unfaithful.

'Hi, you two,' I say.

'Hello,' they say. There's something off about all of this, I think.

'What are you doing here, Soph?' I ask.

She jumps up and points a manicured finger at Paul.

'I saw him with another woman,' she says, her voice shrill. Paul's face goes deep red.

'She's talking rubbish,' he says.

I force them to tell me what the hell is going on. Turns out Paul was out for a drink with my doctor, pressing her to tell him more about the baby. I nearly collapse with relief and send Sophie home, her head hanging in shame.

Paul rocks me to sleep.

I'm lying in bed, the faint evening sun spilling through the hospital window. Paul's sleeping in a chair, his chin buried in his chest.

I'm holding baby Stephen in my arms. He's beautiful, with a shock of black hair and the tiniest fingers you've ever seen. My heart is bursting with love. This is perfection. And I know, in that moment, that we're going to be just fine.


End file.
